


Investiture

by quantumvelvet



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5482538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumvelvet/pseuds/quantumvelvet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mazzy Fentan makes a choice, and is rewarded accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Investiture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blueinkedfrost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueinkedfrost/gifts).



Some nights, Mazzy dreams of darkened corridors that seem to twist in on themselves, thick with dust and cobwebs and shadows that flicker in directions subtly slantwise to the angle of her torch. Of the scent of old dust and older bones, sour earth and the rotting, coppery reek she has always associated with necromancy, though she knows the magic itself has no scent, or at least none that she can detect. Of cold skin that gives just a little too much at the touch, and blank, black pits where familiar eyes had once been housed, and strange, distorted monsters that speak with a once-beloved voice. 

It isn't every night, and it's less often than it once was, though some of that is owed to the fresher store of horrors she's accumulated since; burning cities and baleful elves, magical hearts and murderous would-be goddesses and battles for possession of a soul. She has always walked strange roads, striving for things beyond both the reach and the desire of most of her kin, and it's left its mark on both flesh and soul, in ways that are never quite so obvious as at the deep hours of night when storms howl past the shutters.

And yet, she wouldn't give up a minute of it. Not for a clear night's sleep, not even for the return of those who had fallen along that road, left behind but never quite forgotten. She is stronger for it, she thinks, better able to defend the places and people that need her, and uphold the virtue she cherishes. And had she not been there, more might have been lost – lives, livelihoods, souls. She holds tight to that, on the darkest of nights, in the throes of the worst of the dreams.

Tonight is one such. She stands within the ruined temple in Umar Hills, the fractured stone tiles hard and oddly slick beneath her feet, as though the rot infesting the shadows has somehow transmuted to physical slime. Behind her, a shadow barrier hums, a low, barely audible sound that sets her teeth on edge and makes her feel as though grave beetles are burrowing beneath her skin. Shapes flicker in and out of view on the other side, as though pressing up against the barrier, and a cloying sense of claustrophobia claws at the back of her throat, warning her against attempting to head that way.

Ahead, a low, rhythmic rumble resolves into the sound of a dragon breathing, familiar through repeated exposure. Past the last barrier, then, and her stomach clenches with the knowledge of what lies ahead. Patric, hollowed out and refilled with the essence of the ancient horror haunting this temple, foul and dead and fuelled by malice and avarice. She takes solace in the fact that at least this time she knows what is coming. It's a small kindness, but a kindness none the less.

She steadies herself, and creeps forward – little as she might like sneaking rather than entering honest battle, she's aware enough of her own abilities to know that alone, she has little hope of besting the dragon guarding the Shade Lord's altar. It isn't that kind of dream, vanishingly rare in recent years, where she stands armoured in virtue, blazing and brilliant and unstoppable. She will still stand, but she'll do so wisely, if she has the choice, and with determination if the battle's chosen for her.

She rounds the last bend into the vast chamber that houses the dragon – only it doesn't. The breathing still sounds all around her, here receding, there pressing near enough that it takes all of her willpower not to wheel and search for the beast she knows should be there. But instead, the chamber is split in two, fallen rocks and twisting tree roots turning it into a sort of crossroads, with the entry to the altar's grove on one side of the room, and a smooth-carved hole lit by flickering firelight on the other.

From the direction of the altar comes the sound of battle, the clash of swords and roars of rage and defiance and pain unmistakable, even strangely muffled by stone and shadow and invisible breath. From the other direction – laughter. She recognizes the voices: her mother, her sister, friends from Imnesvale and beyond. A voice – Keldorn, she realizes with a start of surprise – lifts, calling out for her to, “Come, join us for a well-earned rest.”

She feels her feet start to turn in that direction, almost unbidden. The warmth of the firelight beckons, promising succour and healing, a chance to lay down her blade and celebrate with her friends, to start her own family and grow old surrounded by children, content with the knowledge that she had made more of a difference in her travels than many could ever hope to make. But from behind her, towards the altar, the sound of battle is desperate, defenders hard-pressed to drive back the encroaching darkness. One sword, a small voice in the back of her head whispers, could hardly make a difference now.

She stops, giving herself a physical shake. The allure of the firelight doesn't abate, but she finds she can take one step backward, then a second, then turn and place one weary foot in front of the other in the direction of the altar.

“When the hand holding the sword belongs to a virtuous heart, it can always make a difference,” she whispers fiercely to herself.

The stairs leading up towards the altar seem to stretch on forever, but she climbs them steadily, and finds herself emerging into a keep courtyard. Around her, other halflings are engaged in pitched battle against a horde of goblinoid shades. One lunges for the soldier next to her, already locked in combat with a second creature, and Mazzy moves almost without thinking. Her sword blocks the creature's raking claws, and it hisses, jerking away as though burned. She presses the advantage, and only realizes that her blade is gleaming with silver flame when it bites into the shade's flesh like a warm knife into butter.

She hears a cheer go up around her, and though the strength of the soldiers had been flagging only moments ago, they seem to rally, pushing the goblin shades slowly but steadily back. It's only when the courtyard has been cleared, and the gates forced shut and barricaded against the straggling remainder of the shade army, that Mazzy has a chance to look around and take stock, and notice the banners flying along the ramparts, silver short swords crossed on a field of dark blue.

Recognition steals her breath, and she gasps herself awake, eyes opening on a room that, for a moment, seems washed in silver fire. The light fades almost immediately, all but a nimbus that recedes more gradually, lingering around the short swords hung on her gear peg, and the miniature silver buckler that sits heavy in her cupped hands.

She swallows convulsively, grip tightening around the holy symbol, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Though there had been no ceremony to go along with it – no swearing of formal oaths, no ritual exchange – there is no doubting that the dream had been more than merely a dream. A paladin's symbol, a paladin's blessing – and a paladin's duty all lie ahead.

Let the sun and all the rest of the world sleep late. Mazzy Fentan has work to do.


End file.
